


The One Who Apparently Married Sherlock

by WhatLocked



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Author knows nothing about rehab centres or warzones, Don't read this if you really like Sally, Johns POV, M/M, Mentions of Attempted Suicide, Mentions of drugs, mentions of bullying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-26
Updated: 2018-02-26
Packaged: 2019-03-24 08:25:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13807347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhatLocked/pseuds/WhatLocked
Summary: It was asked for, so here it is -This is the other side of ‘The One Where Greg is Exasperated & Confused, Sally is a Cow and Sherlock is Apparently Married”.  It is a look at how a doctor in A&E ended up marrying one of his patients.From the day Sherlock was found by Greg, bruised and high in an empty warehouse, to the day he introduces his husband at a crime scene.Told from John’s point of view.





	The One Who Apparently Married Sherlock

**Author's Note:**

> Some of this may not make sense or may seem rather vague if you haven't read [The One Where Greg is Exasperated...](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13314084)
> 
> I tried to keep it short, like the first one, but it just didn't happen. Sorry!

~~~~~~~~~~

John Watson was a wanderer.  He didn’t have any one place to be, nowhere he could actually call his own.  His parents were both dead, his sister preferred the company of a bottle over that of her brother and most of his friends had families of their own now.  

The feeling of restlessness was one reason why John had joined the army.  It was why, after one tour in Iraq, he had agreed to do one of Afghanistan.  It was why he had agreed do a second tour of Afghanistan, but not before spending a year in London, working as a trauma surgeon at Barts Hospital.  He didn’t like to be in one place too long.  It reminded him that he didn’t really belong anywhere.

John also liked to be busy.  It was why he was cursing that Thursday night, as it was quiet.  Dull.  Boring.    Nothing really worth being called an emergency had come through the doors, especially not anything warranting the use of a surgeon but there was still hope.  It had only been three hours after all.

“Hey, Watson.  Cubicle five” Stamford called out and John groaned running a hand through the four day scruff on his chin and up to his cheek, as if that might hold all the answers to his problems.  Despite being bored, he didn’t want cubicle five.  “You take it and there is snickers bar in it for you” he called back to the other doctor on duty.  He just laughed.  

“You already owe me a crunchie and a cherry ripe.  This one is all yours.”

John groaned again, but stood up and made his way to cubicle five.

Cubicle five was hated by everyone, including the patients.  It was clearly a case of management thinking that because a corner wasn’t being used, it could be used and therefore an examination cubicle had been crammed into it.  It was cramped, usually understocked and more often than not got the violent patients in.  John swore it was cursed.

Reaching the entrance, he yanked the chart off of the wall, with less frustration than he actually felt, and had a look.  

Fantastic.  A junkie.

John slid the curtain opened and with a cheerful smile he didn’t feel at all, said,  “Ah, Mr Holmes.  What seems to be the problem today?”

“As I assume you actually do have a medical degree, it is obvious you are able to read and as you have outwitted your colleague not once, but twice, with chocolate bars of all things, I am going to assume you are not entirely stupid, therefore, unless your nurses handwriting is atrocious, which I know for a fact that, apart from the horrid love hearted i’s, it is not, you should be able to read exactly what is wrong with me.

John looked down at the chart and re-read the notes that the nurse, who actually did put love hearts over her i’s, had written.  It definitely said that the man was currently under the influence of drugs; cocaine, MDMA and possibly two other forms of stimulants.  It was a surprise the man was conscious, let alone coherent. 

It also said he had a possible broken wrist.  John figured it would be better to start with that.

“So, can I have a look…” he said, taking a step forward and reaching towards the arm being held against the body.  

Sherlock tentatively held the hand out.  John looked at the angle.  It was definitely broken, there was no possibly about it.

As John looked over the hand, he also discretely averted his gaze to look over the man.  He was in bad need of a shower, several decent meals, and a good night or two’s rest, but other than that, he looked okay.  

Well, apart from one side of his face bing the colour of a plum, but there was no puffiness where John wouldn’t expect, no yellowing of the skin that wasn’t bruised or in the whites of his eyes.  There were no obvious rashes or lesions and he didn’t appear to be suffering from telogen effluvium. 

“Is it the size or the shape of the room?” Sherlock asked, pulling John out of his secret assessment of his patient.

“Sorry?” he asked, looking up at Sherlock.

“The room.  It was why you didn’t want to take me on.  I was in cubicle five.  Clearly it is cramped, but if it were a standard rectangular shape rather than this...corner shape, it would still be a problem, so is it the shape or the size that is the issue?”

John looked around at the tiny room and then back at the arm, trying not to feel too over-impressed.

“Both” he replied, releasing Sherlocks arm.  “It’s going to need to be x-rayed and then set back in place and plastered.  I can organise for that to happen tonight but before that, I want to check you over properly, see what other damage is done.”

Sherlock just gave a short nod.  “Is there anyone we can call?” John asked and a small sneer pulled at the other man’s top lip.

“My parents are in Africa and my brother is off doing something that I am sure is boring.  There might be a number you can reach him at on my file somewhere.”

John tried not to smile at the man’s petulance.  “We’ll see what we can do.  In the meantime, just wait here.  I would give you something for the pain, but…”

Sherlock waved John off with his good hand and then turned his head to look at the shelves lined with minor supplies.

John took that as his dismissal.

~o~

The arm was plastered, in black as per the patient’s request and now the man was really starting to feel the pain as the recreational drugs slowly left his system.  

“I can’t give you anything other than some over the counter painkillers” John said apologetically, although he didn’t know why.  It wasn’t like he had forcefully made the man take a weekend's worth of stimulants in a few scant hours.

“It’s fine” Sherlock said through shivers, which had started up not that long ago.  “If I just keep busy, I won’t notice.”

“Busy” John almost laughed.  “Mate, You are not leaving that hospital bed, except to move to another one upstairs.”

“Clearly” Sherlock stuttered and John looked at him, still lost.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” The man asked between shivers.

John tucked the blanket around Sherlock tighter and made sure his drip was adjusted properly.

“Umm, both, actually, but more recently, Afghanistan.  Sorry, how did you know?”

“Keeping busy” Sherlock stuttered, pulling his hand out of John’s tightly tucked blanket and tapping his head.

“Been back….nine months.”

“Eight” John corrected.  

“Going back again soon.”

John was impressed.  Not only was it clearly hard for the man to talk through the shivers that were wracking his body, but John had told no one that information.  “Yeah, in four months, unless they need me sooner.  Again, how did you know?  Not even the other nurses and doctors know that.”

“Tell the  _ obvious _ ” and John almost laughed out loud at how that word came out as a sneer “looking cop in the...the waiting room about...my condi...condition or...or else he...will be pace...pacing the ...waiting room all ...night.” The sentence was broken up by violent shivers as Sherlock tried to pull the blankets tighter around him with only the aid of one hand

John looked at Sherlock in confusion.

“I’m going to go to sleep now” And with that, Sherlock closed his eyes and fell asleep, despite still shivering.

_ Right _ .  John thought to himself.  _  The obvious looking cop _ and tucking the blanket around Sherlocks shoulders one more time, John made his way out of cubicle five, getting stopped on the way to the waiting room, by Donald, to say that cubicle fives brother had been contacted and he was on his way to the hospital now.  John thanked the nurse and made his way out to the waiting room where there was no obvious looking cop.

What there was, was an obese woman on a gopher, a woman holding a baby and what John was pretty sure was a corpse, sitting in the corner.  And then there was a man, brown hair, going grey, in a rumpled looking coat, pacing back and forth.  

_ That must be the cop _ , John thought and made his way over.

~o~

John tucked the Detective Inspectors card into Sherlock’s trouser pockets, which also had a keyring with one key, a 50p coin and a spent bullet in it, folded the clothes up and placed them on the end of the bed with the man’s dirty and bloodied jumper and trainers.  The orderlies would be down in a moment to escort the sleeping Mr Holmes up to third floor, presumably along with the brother who hadn’t said so much as ‘ _ boo _ ’ since he walked in.  

The man had just walked in, announcing he was Sherlock’s brother, and continued working on his phone.  John had told him that he wasn’t actually allowed to use his phone in the hospital but the man had given a sinister little laugh and told John how commendable it was that he upheld the rules so well.

John had wanted to punch the man right there and then but he didn’t.  What he did do, instead, was to ring up to third floor and make sure they were ready for their new visitor.

His pager had gone off, not two minutes ago, to say that someone would be down to collect Holmes soon.

John had informed Mycroft, who had in turn ignored him and again, John had wanted to punch him.  The man hadn’t even once enquired about his brothers condition.

That man was as much of a twat as Sherlock was utterly amazing.  

Finally the two orderlies arrived, and with one of the nurses, they took Sherlock off, away from A&E, with the man’s brother in tow.  

John was almost tempted to call out and stop them, tempted to add his own card to the Detective Inspectors.  But he didn’t do either of those things.  What he did do, was watch them turn the corner and walk out of sight and John could only be thankful that for an hour and a half, his night hadn’t been boring.

~o~

John didn’t know why he did it, but rather than heading towards the exit after he had clocked off and grabbed his jacket, he instead took the elevator up to third floor where he knew the broken wrist coming off of a high was admitted, and seeing as he was the admitting doctor, the night nurse, Kelly didn’t think twice about giving John his room number.

Quietly, as not to disturb the sleeping patients, he made his way to room 14C and stood at the door.  

Once he was there, he suddenly didn’t want to disturb the image he had come upon.  

Sherlock was asleep.  There was no surprise there.  What was surprising was the fact that his brother, the one who had seemed so cold and unfeeling down at A&E, was now sitting by his brothers bedside, Jacket removed, waistcoat unbuttoned and shirt sleeves rolled up.  In his hands he held one of Sherlocks, just very gently.

John had just decided that whatever impulse had brought him up here could wait.  Now was not the time to disturb anyone.

“Come in Doctor Watson.  No need to hover on our account” came the smooth, yet tired voice of the other Mr Holmes.

John aborted his almost turn around and instead, stepped into the room.

“Just thought I’d come up and see how he was doing” John said quietly.

“Do you do so with all your admittances, Doctor Watson?  You must be a busy man indeed.”

John didn’t know what to say.  Obviously, the answer was no.  Once the patient was admitted, their regular doctor took over, or the doctor on ward duty.  John wouldn’t say that this was the first time he had done a check-up, but it was certainly a rarity.  But then again, so was the man in the bed.

Mycroft let out a quiet exhale and settled back in the chair.  Clearly, John wasn’t expected to answer.  Maybe, Mycroft already knew the answer.

John took another step towards the brothers.  “How long has he been using?”  John asked quietly.  

Mycroft inhaled as if thinking, probably whether to tell John the answer more than the actual answer to the question.  John didn’t have any disallusions that the man did not know, to the date, when his brother started using.

“My brother is an exceptional man” Mycroft started.  Although John agreed, he didn’t answer.  Mycroft was telling him a fact, not asking John his opinion.  “He is an exceptional man with an exceptional mind and because of this, life has not been easy for him.”

John gave a small nod, to say he understood, even though Mycroft was still looking at his brother.

“When Sherlock was younger, he was alone more often than not.  He was too clever for the children his own age, yet too immature, too innocently naive for the children older than himself.  He never really made any friends.  

“When he was eleven he was sent to boarding school, as I had done several years before him, and life got harder.  He was bored, there was nothing there to stimulate his mind.  He ran away three times before our parents decided that he had been doing better at a local school, so they brought him back home.  It helped a bit, as there were less rules at home and he had more freedom to expand his knowledge and curiosities.

“He went to university a year earlier than he should have, but school just wasn’t challenging enough for him, no matter how much extra work the teachers gave him.  The problem was, he was still emotionally stunted, despite his excelled brain.  The older kids noticed this straight away and latched onto that vulnerability.  Sherlock always did feel too much.”

Mycroft let out a small sigh and John saw his hand tighten around his brothers, just briefly.  John didn’t want to say anything to disrupt Mycroft, so he stayed silent, letting Mycroft take his time.

“Sherlock underwent bullying like he had never experienced before.  To start off with, in order to cope he developed a mind palace that he could retreat to - a sort of memory technique if you will.  He could delve into that thing and stay there for hours, just going through everything he knew and putting it into logical order.  When that stopped being so effective, he took up smoking.  Within three months of starting, he was smoking a pack a day.”

“Jesus” John muttered under his breath.  Mycroft paid him no attention.

“By his second year, Mummy pulled him out of university and he was admitted to a hospital, where he stayed for almost six months.”

“Please say he didn’t....” John couldn’t voice it, that a mind that wonderful had tried to end it all.

“He had filled up the bathroom sink in his dorm with methylene chloride and locked himself in the small bathroom.  Had his dorm mate, who never spent any time in their dorm, opting to stay at his girlfriends instead, not come back to get a clean tie of all things, Sherlock would have died.  As it was, he was unconscious when he was found.”

A silence hung between them, thick enough that John felt he could punch it, and he really wanted to punch something.

“Sherlock didn’t deny trying to kill himself.” Mycroft said, finally breaking that silence.  “In fact, for three and a half months, he didn’t say anything at all.

“When he was released from the hospital, he spent six months in Mummy’s care, going to see a psychiatrist once a week.  There he was diagnosed with being a  _ high functioning sociopath _ .”  Mycroft sneered the diagnosis like it was unwanted scat on the bottom of his shoe.  “Needless to say, that man no longer holds a license and Sherlock was moved onto someone who was actually competent.  Unfortunately, the diagnosis stuck, as it was a way for my brother to protect himself.  He wrapped that title around him like a suit of armour and he seemed better for it.  So much so, that Mummy let him go back to university the following year.”

John wanted that to be the end of the story, he really did.  He wanted to hear that Sherlock got better and became a good man.  A happy one.  But if that were the case, he never would have been brought into John’s hospital that night.

“Sherlock finished his studies” Mycroft continued.  “He lost himself in studying, in proving the lecturers all wrong and in smoking, although, he did cut down on that as it made Mummy cry, but he still didn’t make any friends.  Not until his final semester.”

Again there was a silence and John knew that this was where his original question was going to be answered. 

“Six and a half years ago, my brother met a man going by the name of Nathan Bryant and against all odds, that man made my brother happy.  When he came home after his final term, it was the first time I had seen him smile in such a long time.  I asked him what was so special about Nathan and Sherlock told me that Nathan made his mind quiet, just briefly, and it was utter bliss for those few brief moments.   
“Stupidly, I had thought my brother was talking about sex.”

John could practically feel the self loathing radiating off of the man, sitting on the other side of the hospital bed.  Apparently, not knowing what his brother was up to, was a personal downfall for Mycroft Holmes.

“At first it was marijuana, but then, after eight months, Nathan left Sherlock, in one of the most cruel and humiliating ways possible and Sherlock surprised us all by not falling into depression.  Instead he became quickly addicted to cocaine.”

“Fuck” John muttered.  He had seen it happen.  A lot.  Harry, the army and university.  Friends, associates, colleagues , they can’t handle one thing and before anyone knows it they are spiraling out of control.

“Within three months of first using cocaine, Sherlock, who had regular dealers and his own special 7% solution, was in rehab for the first time.”

It was now that Mycroft finally looked up at John.  “No matter what I do, I just can’t seem to help him.”

Mycroft looked so lost and John knew that that was not a look that the man ever wore.  It just looked so wrong on him, like a young boy wearing their fathers clothes.  It was that look that compelled John to make a promise.

“It’s going to be okay” he told Mycroft, sounding far more confident than he felt.  “We will get him through this and it will all be okay.”

And that was how John Watson found himself drawn into the world of Sherlock Holmes.

~o~

###  ** 2 and a Half Months Later **

John normally liked Thursdays.  Thursdays were his one day of guaranteed happiness.  Normally.  

Since meeting the Holmes brothers, two and a half months ago, John had been swept into a world of ridiculousness.  There had been sibling fights, to rival even John and Harry’s most childish fights.  There had been a kidnapping by Mycroft on the way home from one of John’s shifts.  There had been Mummy and father Holmes, who were surprisingly normal.  And there had been more of Sherlock’s brilliance and deductions.  The man was a genius.  

A very troubled genius, who had latched onto John’s friendship, like a man cast out to see would latch onto a lifeboat. And John was taken with him.  Completely and utterly, taken.

It was why this Thursday sucked.

Since that night, John had continued to visit Sherlock in hospital.  From there, he and Mycroft had talked Sherlock back into rehab.  One thing that had made it bearable for the younger man was that once a week, John was allowed to visit, so every Thursday, for the past ten weeks, John had made sure he was at the rehab centre with a box of decent tea and a packet of jaffa cakes and jammie dodgers.  

This Thursday he had brought custard tarts as well.  It was what gave it away.

“When?” Sherlock asked, as soon as John sat down, and John couldn’t help the chuckle as he shook his head, as depressed as that chuckle sounded.

“I knew they’d be a dead give away” he said, pushing the custard tarts closer.  Sherlock didn’t take them.

“You are either dying or going back to the army earlier than you said. It is the only bad news you would bring me, so which is it and how long do you have.”

“I’m not dying” John said, reaching out and holding his hand on the table, palm up.  Sherlock glared at that hand as if it were the reason for all of his troubles but then with a hefty huff of his breath, he relented and placed his hand in Johns.  John gave his hand a squeeze.

“I leave in three weeks” John told him.  He was met with silence.  “Your brother didn’t want me to tell you at all.  He was worried you may…”

“My brother is an idiot” Sherlock sneered and John smiled.  “We knew it was going to happen sooner or later.”

John squeezed his hand again and Sherlock seemed to deflate a bit.  “We were just hoping for later.”

“Won’t even be a month early” Sherlock stated, trying to sound nonchalant.  He was failing miserably. 

“We can write and email and skype, yeah” John said, trying to make his friend feel better.  I didn’t work.  “I will come back” He promised.

At this, Sherlocks shoulders seemed to relax somewhat.

~o~

###  ** Two and a Half Years Later **

For two and a half years, John and Sherlock kept in contact.  They did write and they did email and they did skype, when they were given the time.  

John fixed up wounded soldiers and civilians and tried not to get himself shot, blown up or maimed in anyway.  

Whenever he got enough leave (which he seemed to get a bit of and couldn’t help thinking Mycroft had something to do with) he went back to London and visited Sherlock.  In that time, Sherlock had two minor relapses, one that saw him see the inside of a rehab clinic for a few weeks.  Unfortunately, John had only just come back from leave and was unable to go see him.

John wasn’t too proud to acknowledge that one of the reasons Sherlock was doing well at staying clean, was him.  Sherlock knew that John was proud of him for staying away from the drugs and tried harder than he had before, to stay sober.  But John also wasn’t so arrogant as to think he was the only reason.

Sherlock had made a way for himself in London.  A way that allowed him to use his skill and keep not only busy, but interested as well, and that was all thanks to one man.  

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade.

Every time John went back to London he promised himself that he would contact the DI and take him out for a pint (or several) to thank him for all he did for Sherlock.  John was under no illusion that without Greg’s influence then Sherlock would still be sober.

His brother was also to thank, not that Sherlock would admit it, but it had been his brother that had brough Sherlock over to Afghanistan for a case of international importance and secrecy, which naturally meant that Sherlock had told John all about it.  It was then, as John saw Sherlock off at the airport, that he realised it.

In the time that John had known Sherlock, he had become more than taken with the man.  He was more than smitten and infatuated with him.

John Watson had gone and fallen in love with him.

He had fallen in love with Sherlock’s mind, the way it worked was beautiful.  Speaking of beautiful, the man was gorgeous, especially now that he wasn’t broken, bloodied and almost corpse looking.  John had fallen in love with his laughter and his petulance, his morbid sense of humour and the sounds he drew from his violin.  He loved that Sherlock dressed impeccably well during the day but wore his t-shirt inside out to bed.  He loved the way he smelt and the sound of his voice and he loved that he spoke to himself more often than he spoke to people.  John had fallen in love with the care Sherlock showed for the few that were close to him, even if it was in a standoffish way and he had fallen in love with his vulnerabilities and delight at the small things in life.

John Watson had fallen in love with Sherlock Holmes.

And to Johns complete and utter disbelief, Sherlock felt the same way.  

Or so he told him, in the visitors room of the rehab facility, after his third relapse.  This one hadn’t been a minor one.  It had been a big one that had seen a worried Mycroft bring John home on emergency leave, to Sherlocks bedside at the clinic.

John had been the only one who could get Sherlock to talk.  He had been the only one to get Sherlock out of his depression enough that they could work on getting him better.

When John had asked why, Sherlock had replied with “Because I love you, John Watson” and John had cried.

He had cried and held Sherlock tighter than he had ever held everyone and he told him “I love you to, you daft bastard” and Sherlock had held him back.

Later, Sherlock had told John that every second of every day he was scared he was going to get news that John had been killed.  He was scared, every second of every day, he was going to be left all alone, again.  He couldn’t do that.  Not now that he knew what it was like to have John in his life.

It was right at that point, that John made up his mind.

“I will always come back for you, Sherlock.  Always.  For as long as you will have me, I am yours, if you’ll have me.”

Sherlock looked down at John and frowned.  “That sounded an awful lot like a marriage proposal.”

John shrugged.  He knew what Sherlock thought about sentiment.  He could do with Johns statement what he wanted, but John had meant every word.  He was in this relationship for the long haul.

“Now who’s the daft bastard” Sherlock said, placing a kiss on Johns nose.  “Of course I’ll have you” and then he placed a kiss on Johns mouth.  Their first kiss which sealed the move from best friends to fiance’ in one afternoon.

~o~

###  ** Two Months Later **

John tried not to wince in sympathy as he rubbed aloe vera gel into the back of his lover.  That thought turned his wince into a grin.   _ His lover _ .  He could say that now.  

They had been engaged for two months and friends before that.  Before John had had to come back to Afghanistan there had been no time for them to celebrate the change in their relationship in a more intimate way and even if they had had time, neither of them would have wanted their first time to be in a rehab centre.

Instead, with the aid of Mycroft, Sherlock had managed a surprise visit while John was on R&R.  It was then that neither of them had been able to keep their hands of each other, in the privacy of a very discreet hotel. 

Five days of being holed up inside the hotel had started to send them both a bit stir crazy so John had suggested an afternoon by the pool and then an evening out at one of the restaurants.  Sherlock had agreed, somewhat reluctantly as they could not openly show their relationship outside the hotel room, but had also agreed that if he had to stare at the blue wallpaper for much longer he was going to start shooting holes in it with Johns revolver.  

Unfortunately, Sherlock had enjoyed the poolside that afternoon a little bit too long and his pale skin hadn’t fared as well as John’s had.

It was why, now, he was easing as much pain from Sherlock’s shoulders as he possibly could.  

“John”Sherlock moaned miserably as John moved down to Sherlocks lower back.  

“Yes, love?” John asked, willing to give into anything Sherlock would ask of him.

“I love you but I don’t think I am up to dinner tonight.”

“That’s okay.  We’ll order in” John reassured him.

“I also do not believe that I will be up for any acts of carnal intimacy.”

John smiled at Sherlock’s way of saying there would be no shagging tonight.

“That’s okay too, love” John replied making sure Sherlock knew he meant it.  

There’d be plenty of time for shagging on the next visit.

~o~

###  ** Seven Months Later **

Sherlock held the shelf steady just as John lined the drill bit up with the hole.  He was just about to drill a hole into the wall when an unfamiliar voice called out Sherlock’s name. 

“Continue.  This won’t take long” Sherlock announced, letting go of the shelf.  John almost dropped the drill as he fumbled to also grab hold of the shelf, which had taken them forever to get level because Sherlock had to have it perfectly straight.

“Sure, right, I’ll just use my third hand, shall I” John groused good naturedly under his breath as he tried to get the shelf back to it’s perfectly straight former angle once more.  He groaned at the thought of having another argument with Sherlock, who was convinced the spirit level was wrong.

John stood as he listened to the muffled voices coming from down the hall.  Sherlocks was easily recognisable, even if his words weren’t.  He would know that voice anywhere.  The other voice was low and gruff and John couldn’t place it, so not Mycroft then. 

John stood for another few moments before his lower back started to twinge.  A result of their activities from a few nights ago.  Unfortunately, it hadn’t been the sort that had ended in mind blowing orgasms, but it had still been a pretty good night, even if Sherlock had deemed it perfectly acceptable to use John as a step ladder to be able to reach the window of an apparent murderers flat (a fact John found out only after they were inside the building).  Hence the twinge.  

The position he was currently holding was going to become very uncomfortable very quickly.

“Sherlock, get in here now, git, or your shelves are going to be crooked.”

There was a few more brief words spoken and then John was happy to hear the front door slamming shut and Sherlocks feet move towards the bedroom.

“Anything important?” John asked when he noted the frown on Sherlock’s face.

“Just Lestrade returning my wallet.”

“That was Lestrade?” John asked, looking over his shoulder towards the door, as if the man in question might be standing there.

“Hmmm.  This is crooked again” Was Sherlock’s reply.

“You should have let me know.”

“I just did, tilt it to the right, just a few degrees, no, stop, back to the left.”

“Well, it would be nice to meet the man” John said tilting the shelf in minute increments.  

“Why?” Sherlock didn’t particularly sound interested in this particular direction of conversation but John didn’t care.  He was sick and tired of shelves.

“Because I would like to meet your friends.”

At this, Sherlocks frown went to one of thoughtful and calculating to one of confusion.

“He’s not my friend” Sherlock said.  “He asks me to do work.  That is it.  Why would you think I was his friend?”

John let out a breath of a sigh.  This was Sherlock being self-depreciative again, he was sure.

“Oh, I don’t know.  Maybe because you speak rather fondly of him and he lets you in on all the interesting cases and because he comes to your place just to return a wallet.”

Sherlock waved Johns observations away.  “The man is an idiot.  He thinks putting up shelves is something to be amused at.”

At this, John let out a bark of laughter.

“What?” Sherlock asked, now even more confused looking.

“Did you tell him you had someone on your room helping to put up shelves?”

“Not in those exact words.”

John chuckled again.  “You honestly don’t know what that implies, do you?”

Sherlock let out a very slow exhale of air through his nose.  A clear sign that he was getting agitated.  Seeing as John only had two more days of leave left, he decided that he didn’t want to spend it with Sherlock in a sulk.

“Lets finish putting these up and then I’ll show you the other meaning for putting up shelves”  John said, hoping that would get the man’s interest.

“Will I find it interesting?”

John just grinned at him.  “Yeah, I think you might.”

~o~

###  ** Two Months Later **

John smiled as Sherlock stepped through the gates.  As usual the man wasn’t paying attention to anything around him, but was busily tapping something out on his phone.  To be fair, he wasn’t expecting John to meet him at the airport.  Mycroft had arranged it as a surprise for Sherlock, who had apparently been climbing the walls since John last left London.  

Finally, Sherlock stopped tapping on his phone and looked up and instantly his eyes met Johns.  The smile that lit his face could have powered the entire base camp for a year.  

Without a word, the two met and hugged, just briefly, before pulling apart.  

“How…?” Sherlock started and then frowned, but there was also a smile there.  “Mycroft.”

“Mycroft” John agreed and then they headed off towards the baggage claim. 

“What was so important on your phone that it took at least two minutes for you to realise I was here?” John asked, bumping his shoulder playfully against Sherlocks as they walked.

“Lestrade and I would have seen you straight away had I known you were going to be here to meet me.”

“It’s called a surprise, Sherlock.  Were you in the middle of a case before you came here?”

“No.  I was telling him not to bother me for ten days.”

“Sherlock...You can’t message him now, it’s half past three in the morning in London.”

“Apparently John, I can, see.  It went through.”  Sherlock held up his phone to show John that the message definitely had gone through.

John just groaned at his fiance’.  He was definitely buying Lestrade a pint one of these days.  Or an entire fucking brewery. 

“No pool this time, John” Sherlock said as he hauled his suitcase off of the carousel and all thoughts of Lestrade and beer fled Johns head.  

“No pool this time” John agreed.

~o~

###  ** Four Months Later **

John couldn’t stop smiling.  He hadn’t been able to stop smiling all day.  Even when Sherlock was late to their bloody wedding, he smiled because the text message he had received was:

**Case.  Only a 3.  I promise I won’t be late.  Much.  SH**

Of course Sherlock detoured on the way to his own wedding for a case.  Had Mrs Hudson not been so adamant that they not see each other on their wedding day, before the big event, he would have happily joined Sherlock for his brief case, but he had been stuck at the church, giggling over Sherlock’s text message while Mycroft tried to placate their mother, reassuring her, with limited patience, that yes, Sherlock would most definitely be arriving and yes, she was right, Mycroft should have personally escorted his younger, yet adult brother to his own wedding.

And he had arrived, in one piece and with his tie surprisingly tied perfectly and only forty-five minutes late.  

It had been a perfect day.  Not a thing had gone wrong and now, here the two of them were, dancing around the floor in a waltz that John had gotten Murray to teach him in order to surprise Sherlock, as their first dance as newly weds.  

There was only one person in the room that was smiling more than John and that was the man who was currently in his arms. 

After nervously stumbling through his vows in front of the small gathering of close family and a few friends, Sherlock had kissed John too early and then smiled.  It hadn’t left his mouth since, just growing in its intensity.

Finally, the dance came to an end and Sherlock dipped John back and kissed him, simple and sweet.

“I love you doctor Watson-Holmes” he murmured, pulling back and still smiling at John.

John beamed back.  “I love you too Mr Watson-Holmes.”

~o~

###  **3 Months Later**

Sherlock was drunk.  He had only said one word and that was enough to tell John, that Sherlock was drunk.  Not tipsy, but borderline plastered.

“John” he called happily down the phone again, and John winced at how loud his husband could be.  “I got knifed today, John.”

“What.”  John had sudden images of gaping wounds and hacked at limbs.  

“Oh, it’s okay” Sherlock practically sang down the phone.  “George made me see the man in the ambee...ambo..amblence.”

“Ambulance?” John supplied.  “And who is George?”

“You know.  Glen.  The man.  The one with the cases.”

“Greg?” John asked.  “Greg Lestrade?”

“That’s what I said, John “ Sherlock whinged.  “He said...no he  _ yelled _ at me.  And I had to see the man in the ammm…”

“Ambulance.”

“But I’m fine.”

John wanted to bang his head against the desk top.  At least talking to Sherlock while he was high, was tolerable.  He was forward thinking, if a bit erratic.  Talking to a drunk Sherlock, was going to be a roundabout of conversation and a case of twenty questions to get one simple answer.

“Is Greg with you now?” John asked hoping he was.  It was early in the morning and John had been asleep when he was woken up and told that an urgent call was waiting for him.

“Who?” Sherlock asked and John let out a groan.

“Lestrade” John clarified.

“What about him?”  

John wanted to pull out his hair.  God, he was going to be there all night.

“Is Lestrade with you?” he asked.

There was silence and John just knew that Sherlock was looking around the room for Greg.  

“No” was the simple answer.  “Why would Lestrade be here?”  he then asked.  

“I don’t know” John replied really, really wanting to cry.  There was no way Sherlock was going to be talked off the phone in the next ten minutes or so.  He had clearly rung up for a reason (more than like the reason he had decided to get pissed) and he wasn’t going to hang up until he had told John that reason.

“He is probably at work.  Or at home.  Did you know his wife is sleeping with the PE teacher.”

John shook his head.  “No.  I didn’t know that.”

“Well, she is.  Apparently the masseuse left town.”

John got as comfortable as he could in the chair and let Sherlock talk it out, contributing when he felt it necessary.  

Finally, after another twenty-five minutes, they finally got to the crux of the problem.

“You are my best invention, John.”

John was confused.  They were just talking about parsnips.  “What?” he asked.

“You” Sherlock reiterated.  “You are the best thing my mind has come up with.  

John was still confused.  Even by Sherlocks drunken standards, this was weird.  “That’s great, love, but I can’t let you have the credit for making me up.  That title goes to my parents.”

At this, Sherlock laughed.  “See, I know you’re not real because you love me.”

John was instantly more awake than he had been all night. 

“Of course I love you.  Why would you think I wouldn’t?”  He knew he had to be careful here.  Sherlock had insecurities so deep, it was a surprise he hadn’t struck oil yet. 

“Because” Sherlock said, sounding blissfully happy.  “I am a freak and no one would really love me.  And they definitely wouldn’t marry me.”

John was angry.  He was fucking spitting mad.  It didn’t take long to put the pieces together.  

Sherlock had been on a case.  There were a few officers there that liked to make life hard for Sherlock and belittle him when they got the chance.  Granted, Sherlock had the verbal filter of a drunk five-year old, but they were also supposed to be professional and adult.  There was one in particular that liked to throw the word  _ freak _ about.

“I see you’ve been chatting to Sally” John said, trying very hard to keep the anger out of his voice.  After all, it wasn’t Sherlock who he was angry at.

“Mmm” Sherlock agreed.  “Lestrade made her go away.  She was very rude, cutting me off when I was talking.”

“Sherlock, love” John said, getting his husbands attention.  “I need you to listen to me, okay.”

“Yes, John” Sherlock hummed.

“You didn’t make me up, okay” John started.  “I am not a figment of your imagination nor am I a hallucination.  I am a real person and I am hopelessly in love with you, you mad git.”

Sherlock giggled at that.  “I love you too, John.”

John smiled at how happy Sherlock sounded, even if it was with heavy undertones of drunkenness.

“I don’t want you to take any notice of Sally Donovan, okay.  She is just a sour bitch.”

Again, Sherlock giggled.  “Because Anderson’s wife isn’t going away for the work conference.”

It seemed, now that Sherlock had Johns reassurance that he hadn’t made up a husband to love him, he was starting to get drowsy.

“Why don’t you go to bed, love” John suggested.  

“I like your voice” Sherlock replied. 

“That’s okay.  I can keep talking to you until you go to sleep.”

“Can I sleep on the couch?”

“Yes, Sherlock, you can sleep on the couch.”

“Good” was the response.  “Because I am there now and when I try to sit up, the room spins.”

John smiled.  “Stay on the couch and I will tell you about what I did yesterday.”

“Okay, John.”

John listened as Sherlock got comfortable and then started recapping the previous day.  In under ten minutes he could hear soft snores coming from the other end of the phone.

“Night Sherlock” John said quietly into the receiver.  “I love you, you mad git” and then he hung up, making a note to send Mycroft an email, asking him to keep an eye on Sherlock for the next couple of days.

~o~

###  ** 2 Months Later  **

**This is going to be wonderful.  I love the weird ones.  This time it is vampires. SH**

It was rare that John actually was available to answer a message from Sherlock when he actually sent it.  Usually, there was several hours between responses, but not today.  Today, John had been relaxing and playing chess with a patient when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket.  John replied with the cheesiest response he could come up with.

**You know it’s going to end up sucking.**

And then with the crudest response he could come up with.

**But then again, you like things that suck well.**

John placed his phone back in his pocket and moved his bishop.  He knew it was a dick move, one that was going to leave several of his pieces vulnerable but he also knew that now that Sherlock was messaging his mind wouldn’t be on the game.  

The response was quicker than he thought it would be, even for Sherlock.  

**Apparently now isn’t the time.  I’ll message you later.  SH**

John frowned.  Since when did anything, other than Sherlocks mood, dictate his responses.  If anything, he would have sent his normal reply and then a long essay on why the person, or situation that was trying to stop him from messaging, was wrong.  If he had been busy, he just wouldn’t have replied.  

“Something wrong, Doc” the man he was playing against asked.

John just looked at the screen of his phone one more time and then pocketed his phone again.  If he had to, he’d call Mycroft to find out what was wrong.

“No. No, everything’s fine” John said and it sounded like a lie even to his own ears.

“Is that why you haven’t moved your king out of the path of my last pawn?”

John looked at the board.  Sure enough, he had left his most valuable piece in the direct path of a pawn of all things.

“I did call check, but you were too busy being all fine” the man, Jenkins, said with friendly sarcasm.

John was about to answer when his phone vibrated again.  Quickly, he pulled it out of his pocket and opened up the message.

**Anderson just keeps finding ways to make himself look like more of an Idiot.  It really is unbelievable.  All the more satisfactory when Lestrade calls him out on it as well.  I knew this case was going to be a good one.  SH**

John smiled.  Apparently all was fine.

~o~

###  ** 2 Months Later  **

John was feeling frustrated.  It had taken two weeks to organise this skype call and he was currently looking at the screen which was filled by Sherlocks palm, of all things, while his husband spoke to someone else about a bloody butcher.

Finally, Sherlock deemed that John was worthy enough to garner his attention once more but apparently it was to be brief.

“A serial killer, John.  It has been an age since I had one of those.”

John knew that Sherlock couldn’t help get excited over these things, and normally, John would be happy for him, but not today.  Today was not a good day for John.  Over the past 38 hours there had been deaths.  Two of them had been soldiers.  People he knew, people he trained with.  They were like a part of his family and he had had to sign their death certificates and after all of it, after the screams and tears and blood.  After the pain and frustration and the cursing at lack of proper medical supplies, which someone had taken to pilfering lately, more than likely to sell on the black market.  After all of it, John had just wanted some time alone to talk with Sherlock.  To hear something good.  

“Yeah, great” John said, none too enthusiastically.  It was hard trying not to get angry when he was so damned exhausted. 

“And now he has changed, John.  Not much, but enough.  Oh, it is brilliant” and the man was off, whirling around the room from what John could hear, probably donning his coat and scarf.

When he sat back down in front of his laptop it proved John right.  Sherlock was ready to leave.  

“Okay, great.  I guess we’ll chat another time” John said and this time he could leave all of the anger out of his voice.  

“I’ll call” Sherlock said, seeming to sense that something wasn’t right. “As soon as this is over.  I’ll call you.”

“I look forward to it” John replied somewhat sullenly.  “Have fun on your case.  Bye.”

Sherlock seemed to hesitate a bit and then, as if unsure he was saying the right thing he said “Goodnight, John.”  

John gave a short nod and clicked the call to a close.

It was probably a good thing he hadn’t tried to draw out their farewells as Johns anger was only being held closed by a very thin thread.

“Fucking hell” he hissed and slammed his hand down on the table next to the laptop.  One good thing.  That was all he wanted.  

He let out a sigh.  He had at least got three minutes of conversation with Sherlock before they were interrupted.  At least he got to see his face.  

John let out a sigh.  It was filled with frustration and exhaustion.  Apparently today was not his day.

He was about to close the laptop, to just resign for the night and write today off as a shit day, hoping a good night’s rest would yield better results for tomorrow, when his skype started ringing.

A quick look revealed it was Sherlock calling back.  John answered it immediately.

“The thing about dead bodies” Sherlock said, his image, now coat and scarf free filling up the screen, “Is that they are not going anywhere any time soon.  I’m sure there will still be enough usable evidence in half hours time.”

John smiled.  Clearly his shit day had come to an end.

~o~

###  ** 3 Months Later  **

John had been away from camp for four days.  That was four days with no phone, no skype and no email.  It was four days that he hadn’t been in contact with Sherlock and as soon as he got back to base, the first thing he did, once he was free of all duties, was check his email.  

There were fifteen of them and all were from Sherlock.  

Sitting back in the chair that the small office provided, John got as comfortable as he possibly could and then opened the first one.

 

 **Date:** _20th August 2009_

 **Time:** _10:51 pm_

 **To:** _John <_[ _john.watson@defense.gov.uk_](mailto:john.watson@defense.gov.uk) _>_

 **From:** _Sherlock <_[ _sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk_](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk) _>_

**Subject:** _ Bored _

_ John,  _

_ It has only been three hours since you have been uncontactable and already I am bored.  Nothing is happening.  All of the interesting criminals have gone on strike and there are only reruns of Doctor Who on the TV.   _

_ I can’t believe it hasn’t been four days yet.  It has felt like an eternity. _

_ SH _

 

John shook his head and did something with his face that was somewhat between a smile and a grimace.  He was terribly fond of that daft bastard but god only knew what trouble he would get up to if he was already bored.

 

 **Date:** _20th August 2009_

 **Time:** _11:38 am_

 **To:** _John <_[ _john.watson@defense.gov.uk_](mailto:john.watson@defense.gov.uk) _>_

 **From:** _Sherlock <_[ _sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk_](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk) _>_

**Subject:** _ Molly is dead to me _

_ John,  _

_ I no longer consider Molly a friend.  She has conspired with Mycroft, of all people and organised a pass for me to use to get into the morgue. An electronic pass, John! I know what you are thinking, that this will make my life easier.  But be that as it may,  it also logs all of my activities into the hospitals database.  They will know precisely when I have been in and out of the morgue.  Surely even they aren’t stupid enough to draw a line from dot a to dot b.  How am I to smuggle things out of the morgue now, undetected?  With a lot more unnecessary hassle, that is how.   _

_ Consider me grumpy. _

_ SH _

 

John let out a sigh and rolled his eyes.  Of course Sherlock would take getting easy access to his favourite place as an inconvenience.  John gave him two days before he realised that the pass was a wonderful idea.

 

 **Date:** _20th August 2009_

 **Time:** _11:58 am_

 **To:** _John <_[ _john.watson@defense.gov.uk_](mailto:john.watson@defense.gov.uk) _>_

 **From:** _Sherlock <_[ _sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk_](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk) _>_

**Subject:** _ It is Christmas! _

_ John,  _

_ A double murder, a missing grandfather and a five legged axolotl.  It is at least a six, verging on a possible seven.  Christmas is here and without those insipid songs! _

_ SH _

 

John laughed.  Twenty minutes.  That is all it had taken the man to go from grumpy to excited child on christmas.  He also wondered how long it was before that axolotl made its way into Baker Street.

 

 **Date:** _20th August 2009_

**Time:** 3:17 pm

**To:** _John <_[ _john.watson@defense.gov.uk_](mailto:john.watson@defense.gov.uk) _>_

 **From:** _Sherlock <_[ _sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk_](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk) _>_

**Subject:** _ Please prove him wrong _

_ John,  _

_ What would cause a person to lose their fingernails?  Anderson informs me that it is possible symptom of thyroid or other endocrine conditions.  Please tell me he is wrong.  I hate his smug look. _

_ SH _

 

John made a mental note to find all the reasons he could help prove Anderson wrong, even though there was a possibility that the man was right.  Maybe if Anderson hadn’t been such a dick to Sherlock then he would just agree with the man.

 

 **Date:** _21st August 2009_

**Time:** 1:02 am

**To:** _John <_[ _john.watson@defense.gov.uk_](mailto:john.watson@defense.gov.uk) _>_

 **From:** _Sherlock <_[ _sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk_](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk) _>_

**Subject:** _ Stakeout _

_ John,  _

_ Stakeout - noun:  _

  1. _the surveillance of a location by the police, as in anticipation of a crime or the arrival of a wanted person._
  2. _the place from which such surveillance is carried out._
  3. _something that is bounded or separated by or as if by stakes, especially property, territory, or the like that one identifies or claims as one's own._
  4. _the current cause for my imminent death due to my brain rotting and turning to sludge and then leaking out of my ears , all due to absolute boredom._



_ On the upside, the victim did not have a thyroid problem.  The loss of nails  was a result of taking  _ _ rituximab for their rheumatoid arthritis.   _

_ SH _

 

Of course Sherlock would be bored with peace and quiet.  John couldn’t get enough of it lately, and here was Sherlock, complaining of a night of doing nothing.  Maybe John could find Poe on audio book for Sherlock.  It might help pass the time on his next stakeout.

 

 **Date:** _21st August 2009_

 **Time:** _6:01 pm_

 **To:** _John <_[ _john.watson@defense.gov.uk_](mailto:john.watson@defense.gov.uk) _>_

 **From:** _Sherlock <_[ _sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk_](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk) _>_

**Subject:** _ How disappointing, it was only a four. _

_ John,  _

_ The case was indeed an utter let down.  What seemed to be a clever ploy, turned out to be mere laziness and it was the sister all along. Also, I wasn’t allowed to keep the axolotl.   It was such a disappointment that I have actually agreed to join Glen and the others in a trip to their local for a drink.   _

_ I blame you for not being available. _

_ SH _

 

John actually re-read that one.  There was no way in hell that he would have believed Sherlock would go to a pub, and with the officers of the Yard, no less.

 

 **Date:** _21st August 2009_

 **Time:** _7:37 pm_

 **To:** _John <_[ _john.watson@defense.gov.uk_](mailto:john.watson@defense.gov.uk) _>_

 **From:** _Sherlock <_[ _sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk_](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk) _>_

**Subject:** _ Beer _

_ John,  _

_ I still don’t know how you drink beer.  It is deplorable, despicable and disgusting.   _

_ SH _

 

 **Date:** _21st August 2009_

 **Time:** _7:39 pm_

 **To:** _John <_[ _john.watson@defense.gov.uk_](mailto:john.watson@defense.gov.uk) _>_

 **From:** _Sherlock <_[ _sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk_](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk) _>_

**Subject:** _ Pubs _

_ John,  _

_ In fact, I don’t even know how you stand pubs.  They are awful.  They are loud, crowded, the music is terrible and the patronage is questionable, and that is coming from me, John! _

_ Don’t even get me started on the smell nor on the state of the loos.   _

_ SH _

 

John shook his head in fond exasperation at both of those messages.  It was just like Sherlock to find everything that was wrong with pubs and not take advantage of the relaxed atmosphere.  And why was he drinking beer?  He hates beer.

 

 **Date:** _21st August 2009_

 **Time:** _7:59 pm_

 **To:** _John <_[ _john.watson@defense.gov.uk_](mailto:john.watson@defense.gov.uk) _>_

 **From:** _Sherlock <_[ _sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk_](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk) _>_

**Subject:** _ Save me from the vile harpies of London, John _

_ John,  _

_ She was vile, the harpy that tried to lure me at the pub.  Everything about her was fake.  Her hair, her teeth, her nails, her breasts, which are going to cause her a lot of back trouble when she is older.  She even had contact lenses in to make her eyes blue.   _

_ She had purposely pitched her voice lower as to seem coy, innocent.  It was repulsive and she was definitely far from innocent.  The poorly concealed cold sore on her lip was a definite turnoff.  As was the fact that there was at least two traces of mens fragrance over her own sickeningly sweet choice of perfume. _

_ I won’t even mention her intelligent levels.  At least that wasn’t fake.   _

_ If you were here, you could have scared her away with your soldierly presence.   _

_ Maybe you could put Donovan in her place too. _

_ SH _

 

John felt something unpleasant form in his gut at the thought of someone hitting on Sherlock.  He knew it was irrational, but he had always been prone to jealousy, even in small bouts.  The mention of Donovan didn’t help him feel much better.  If there was one person who needed putting in their place it was her.

 

 **Date:** _21st August 2009_

 **Time:** _8:03 pm_

 **To:** _John <_[ _john.watson@defense.gov.uk_](mailto:john.watson@defense.gov.uk) _>_

 **From:** _Sherlock <_[ _sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk_](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk) _>_

**Subject:** _ Unspoken deductions _

_ John,  _

_ Gavin wouldn’t let me deduce her (the vile harpy, not Donovan).  He is not as idiotic as the rest.  He knew I was going to do it and he instead distracted me with menial tasks.  He then asked me not to make anyone cry as if that is a habit of mine.  I can’t help it if Anderson has the emotional constitution of a five year old. _

_ Apparently I am not aloud to be rude to anyone, but it is okay for Donovan to constantly imply that I am not only delusional, but uncaring, unfeeling and unlovable. _

_ Maybe that’s just how everyone sees me, so therefore it is fine to comment as such.   _

_ SH _

 

“ _ Greg _ ” John said almost silently, a smile tugging at his lips again.  “ _ His name is Greg _ .”

The smile didn’t last long.  Why in the hell was Donovan implying anything. She doesn’t know Sherlock.  She never bothered to take the time to know Sherlock and why in the hell was she even allowed to say things like that to him.  Why was it that no one was putting her in her place.  

When John finally got around to meeting Greg, he was not only buying the man a pint of two but he was also going to have a word with him about his fucking officers. 

 

 **Date:** _21st August 2009_

 **Time:** _8:05 pm_

 **To:** _John <_[ _john.watson@defense.gov.uk_](mailto:john.watson@defense.gov.uk) _>_

 **From:** _Sherlock <_[ _sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk_](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk) _>_

**Subject:** _ How do you feel about roleplaying? _

_ John,  _

_ Apparently this is a thing that people do in the bedroom.  Your thoughts on the matter? _

_ SH _

 

That thought aroused and terrified John.  He had role played in the past, with other partners, but it had been small things.  God only knew what Sherlock had in mind. It could be utterly humiliating or it could be one of the best experiences he would ever have.

 

 **Date:** _21st August 2009_

 **Time:** _8:41 pm_

 **To:** _John <_[ _john.watson@defense.gov.uk_](mailto:john.watson@defense.gov.uk) _>_

 **From:** _Sherlock <_[ _sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk_](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk) _>_

**Subject:** _ Why? _

_ John,  _

_ I still don’t know why you continued to see me after you first treated me.  I know what you tell me - that you thought I was fascinating and brilliant and beautiful - but I don’t see it.   _

_ I am rude and inconsiderate and a complete arsehole. I would completely understand if you chose to stay in Afghanistan once your contract is over.   _

_ You would be miserable here.  Maybe not straight away, but after a while, I tend to make everyone that way.  It is who I am.  It is why no one believes you are real.  Why would they?  Who in their right mind would actually want to marry me? _

_ SH _

 

This hit John in the chest, hard, everytime Sherlock voiced this concern.  It didn’t come up often, but it was enough to be worrying.  John didn’t know what else he could do to make Sherlock believe, once and for all, that he was lovable and amazing and beautiful.  He was everything that John wanted.   

He knew it wasn’t Sherlock talking.  It was the likes of Sally Donovan and Anderson that put these thoughts into his head.  God, John would really love to have a quiet word with both of them.  Preferably in a locked room with a blunt object.

 

 **Date:** _21st August 2009_

 **Time:** _8:55 pm_

 **To:** _John <_[ _john.watson@defense.gov.uk_](mailto:john.watson@defense.gov.uk) _>_

 **From:** _Sherlock <_[ _sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk_](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk) _>_

**Subject:** _ Noise _

_ John,  _

_ I don’t like it when you are not here.  It is even worse when we can’t speak.  It is too noisy when you are away. _

_ SH _

 

The worry that had started at Sherlocks last email, broke open and washed over John and it felt like being doused with a bucket of ice cold water. 

If the noises in Sherlock’s head were too loud then he needed a distraction.  A big one.  It was those noises, the constant running of his mind, that drove Sherlock back to the drugs.  They became unbearable and he resorted to the only thing that would shut them up instantly.

John could only hope that Mycroft was keeping a careful watch on his brother.

 

 **Date:** _21st August 2009_

 **Time:** _9:26 pm_

 **To:** _John <_[ _john.watson@defense.gov.uk_](mailto:john.watson@defense.gov.uk) _>_

 **From:** _Sherlock <_[ _sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk_](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk) _>_

**Subject:** _ I am sorry _

_ John,  _

_ I am so sorry.  I know you think I am strong.  But I am not.  I can’t be like you.  The pain of you, not here with me rips at me and I know I will only disappoint you and it hurts even more.  I don’t deserve you, John.  Everyone knows that.  Even people who don’t know you know that. And eventually you will see that and you will leave me.  Because I am a pathetic junkie who is only good at disappointing.   _

_ I can’t keep living with this hurt.  I need to make it stop.  I need to stop the noise in my head and there is only one way that I can do that with you not here and I am so, so sorry.   _

_ SH _

 

John was in full panic mode.  Sherlocks emails had escalated and quickly.  There was one more to go and John almost dreaded reading it.  What he wanted to do was ring Sherlock, ring him and tell him that everyone was idiots and that he was brilliant and wonderful and that he didn’t need the drugs.  But he had to read that one last email.  He had to believe that Sherlock didn’t relapse.  He had to give him the benefit of the doubt.  So clicked on the final email and he was so glad that he did.

 

 **Date:** _22nd August 2009_

 **Time:** _3:39 am_

 **To:** _John <_[ _john.watson@defense.gov.uk_](mailto:john.watson@defense.gov.uk) _>_

 **From:** _Sherlock <_[ _sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk_](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk) _>_

**Subject:** _ I love you, John Watson _

_ John,  _

_ I couldn’t do it.  I wanted to.  I went to where I knew I could get what I needed but when I got there, there was a man that looked like you and I couldn’t do it.   _

_ I walked all night just going nowhere.  It was hard to walk away from my dealer but I did it.  Because you would have wanted me to walk away. _

_ You make me better John, even when you are not here.  I love you and you love me.  After hours of self-pity and thinking, and acquiring three separate blisters on my feet, I actually believe that again.  You love me and no one can take that away from me.  Especially not the likes of Sally Donovan.   _

_ SH _

 

John couldn’t help it.  Tears were falling down his cheeks as he finished reading the emails and he quickly opened up a new email and typed one out to Mycroft, once again asking him to keep an eye on his brother and to maybe think about transferring Sally Donovan to somewhere horrible.  

Before he could pick up a phone in order to call Sherlock and tell him how truly wonderful he was, there was a reply from Mycroft in his inbox.

**Date:** _24th August 2009_

 **Time:** _4:37 pm_

 **To:** _John <_[ _john.watson@defense.gov.uk_](mailto:john.watson@defense.gov.uk) _>_

 **From:** _Mycroft <_ _m_[ _holmes@dept.transport.gov.uk_](mailto:sholmes@scienceofdeduction.co.uk) _>_

**Subject:** _ Rest assured _

_ John,  _

_ Please rest assure that Sherlock is fine.  It had come to my attention that he was out of sorts and that a danger night was imminent.  I have, with much persuasion and an offer of very sensitive files, managed to convince my brother to undertake a case that will keep him actively busy for at least another three days. _

_ If you are amiable to a few days off I am sure it could easily be arranged at short notice as I am sure my brother will be in need of a short vacation once he has solved the problem I have given him.   _

_ I await your reply. _

_ Mycroft Holmes, _

_ Minister of Transport _

John read the reply email, not even questioning how he had replied so fast and sent out a silent thanks to the man who had eyes and ears all over.

He felt horribly guilty about using Mycroft’s position (clearly not in transport) to get R&R at such short notice, but if Sherlocks sanity relied upon it then he would shoulder the guilt happily.

Without another thought, he fired off another email to Mycroft, agreeing to some time off with Sherlock.

~o~

###  **2 Months Later**

John had been shot.  He hadn’t meant to be.  He wasn’t even supposed to be there, but there had been an emergency and John had been ordered to go, to leave the relative safety of base camp.

Then he had been shot.  And it hurt. Like, really, really fucking hurt.  

God, Sherlock was going to kill him.  John had promised him that he would return, that he wouldn’t get killed.  If he died, Sherlock would be devastated.  

John closed his eyes against the pain and against the rapid gunfire that was sounding somewhere far too close.  

He couldn’t go like this.  Not without seeing Sherlock one more time.  To tell him that he loved him, one more time.

‘ _ Please God _ ’ he desperately thought, just in case there was actually someone watching over him.  ‘ _ Please let me... _ ’

An explosion cut his thoughts off as smoke filled his lungs and darkness blanketed his mind.

~o~

###  **3 Weeks Later**

John heard the doorbell downstairs ring.  He ignored it.  It rang again and he still ignored it.  

Even if he had wanted to open his eyes, get up out of bed and go downstairs to see who it was, he couldn’t.  

After making sure John had been laying in a comfortable position and had enough pillows and had made sure the blankets were enough, yet not too much, Sherlock had climbed into bed with him and made himself comfortable.  

That had involved the taller, lankier man, delicately draping one leg and one arm over Johns body, careful of all of his injuries (both real and imaginary) and pulled himself as close to John as he could without hurting the smaller man further.

When John had fallen asleep, Sherlock had still been awake.  Exhausted, but awake.  Now he was asleep, his breaths coming out in short but even huffs against the side of Johns neck.  John was thankful.  The man had hardly slept since John got back.  

His leg was still over Johns shins and his arm was still over Johns stomach, effectively holding the man captive, and John couldn’t say that he cared one little bit.

The doorbell rang once more, this time lasting longer and John was going to rip anyone, who woke Sherlock up, a new hole regardless of his current injuries.  

Thankfully, before the bell could ring again, Mrs Hudson went and answered the door.  There was a brief  discussion which John could hear muffled murmurs of and then the visitor was turned away.  John sent a silent thanks to their landlady and then vowed to buy the woman every book by Sloan Parker that she didn’t already own.

Reassuring himself once more that Sherlock was still asleep, John turned his head so his cheek was resting against the top of Sherlock’s head, closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

~o~

###  ** A Month Later **

“Message Lestrade.”

“No.”

John let out a frustrated sigh.  Sherlock ignored him.  This was an argument that had been brewing for several days now. 

Sherlock was bored.  John could see it.  Mrs Hudson could see it.  The married ones next door could hear it.  

It had been over two months since John had been shot.  In that time Sherlock had only taken on one case and according to Mycroft, it hadn’t ended well.  And while he had made a wonderful nurse to John, it was clear that he wanted to be doing something else.  

“Sherlock” John stated, folding the newspaper closed and placing it on his lap.  “You have been pacing for the past fifty minutes.  You have stopped eating and you have taken to wearing three nicotine patches.  I also know that last night you went out onto the fire escape and had a cigarette.  You are bored.  Call Lestrade.”

“I am not calling Lestrade” Sherlock snapped, finally stopping his pacing. 

“Sherlock” John started again, but he didn’t get any further. 

“You were shot, John” Sherlock spat.  “You died on the operating table.  Your wounds became infected and you are still recovering.  The trauma was so bad that you developed a limp that, by alrights, shouldn’t be there.”

John knew he should ignore it.  Sherlock didn’t mean anything by his words.  It was just observations.  But John couldn’t help it.  Sherlock wasn’t the only one who was sick of the situation.

“Yes, thank you Sherlock.  I am well aware of how I am broken.”

Suddenly, Sherlock looked horrified.  “John, that’s not what I…”

“No?  If not reminding me of my injuries then what were you doing?  Letting me know all the ways those injuries make me utterly useless and completely incapable of staying on my own for a few hours.”

“That’s not what I meant, John.”

“Really?  Then prove it.  Call Lestrade and stop pacing the bloody floor like a caged animal.”

Sherlock looked lost and terrified and for once John thought he had rendered the man speechless. It didn’t last long.

“I can’t John” he said quiet enough that had there been any other noise in the flat, John would have missed it. Then with more volume,  “I can’t leave you.”

That was it.  John had had enough.  If Sherlock didn’t get out of this flat, if he didn’t start doing something he was going to start to resent John.  If Sherlock didn’t let John start becoming more independent, John was going to start resenting Sherlock.  Unfortunately, Sherlock couldn’t see this.  All he could see was John, injured and no longer the man he was and John could not take the pity any longer.

“I am not a fucking invalid, Sherlock.  I don’t need you holding my hand every fucking minute of the day” he yelled.

Silence fell upon the flat as the two men looked at each other.  John was still angry, his breath coming out in short, harsh pants.  Sherlock looked stricken.  

John couldn’t stand it any more.  “I’m going to bed” he said, and grabbing his cane he struggled to his feet and he stomped out of the living room and to the bedroom.  

~o~

John ignored the mattress dipping and the rustle of blankets as his husband slid into bed next to him.  

It had been several hours since the argument and while John had calmed down considerably he knew the problem was still there.  Pretending everything was okay was only waiting for another argument.  Possibly a bigger one.  

After a few seconds he felt Sherlocks arm slide over his waist and Sherlock scooted closer so he was spooned up behind John.

“I messaged Lestrade” the other man whispered into the dark, his breath ghosting over Johns neck.  

John felt himself physically relax.  Sherlock had paid attention.  He had listened to John.  

“And?” John asked, bringing his hand up to grasp Sherlocks.  He gave it an encouraging squeeze.

“He said he would let me know as soon as something came up.”

John gave another squeeze of Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock turned his hand so they were palm to palm.

“I don’t think you are broken, John” Sherlock said after a few moments of silence.

A small, sad smile spread Johns mouth.  “But I am, though.”

He felt Sherlock kiss the back of his neck. “No you’re not.  But it is hard for me to leave you because I’m scared I will lose you again.  I am scared that if I leave, when I come back, something would have happened to you and I can’t bare any moment being my last with you.”

John blinked the tears back.  He was not going to cry.  “You know me, Sherlock” John said, hoping it didn’t sound as teary to Sherlock as it did to him.  “I always come back to you.  Every time.”

Sherlock kissed the back of his neck again.  “I know, John.”

And that was all that needed to be said.  They spent the rest of the night, asleep, wrapped up together.

~o~

###  ** 4 Days Later **

John had just sat down in his chair, cup of tea on the side table next to him, as he listened to Sherlock thunder down the stairs.  It was as he was picking up the newspaper that was on the floor next his chair that he heard Sherlock thunder back up the stairs.

“You were an army doctor” Sherlock stated as he stopped in the doorway to their living room.  John didn’t turn to see why his husband was stating the blatantly obvious on the threshold of their apartment when there was a most interesting murder to be solved.

“Hmm.  Come to that conclusion all on your own, did you?” John hummed as he snapped open the newspaper, getting himself comfortable for a night of not doing anything overly exciting.

“Actually, if you remember correctly, yes, I did, but that’s not the point, John.”

John just shrugged, wondering if Sherlock had a point to this very obvious subject.

“You have seen a lot of injuries, violent deaths.”

“Far too many” John replied as his eyes scanned an article on how coffee was apparently bad for your brain.

“Do you want to see more?”

The question instantly snapped John out of his pointless perusing over boring articles and he finally turned in his chair to look at his husband.  The smile on Sherlock’s face was one of pure mischief.

“Only if you are with me.”

Sherlocks smile practically doubled.

~o~

Greg Lestrade was much as John remembered him.  A bit older and a lot greyer than five years ago, but that happened to the best of them.

“Wanna make that first pint, tonight?” the man asked John, reading the message on his phone.  Before he even turned it to show John, John knew it was from Sherlock.

John couldn’t help the chuckle that left his mouth when he read the text message.  “Any time you’re free” John agreed and they made their way to join Sherlock, John promising to buy Greg anything he wanted.  After all, he owed him.


End file.
